The Cardinal in the Tree, Part 1

Blanche sat in a faded, floral wingback chair facing the window in her room. Her head was bowed and eyes closed, her hands folded in her lap as though in prayer. Nearly white brows knit together and even whiter hair was pulled loosely back in a bun; her lower lip protruded slightly as she exhaled soft puffs of air. The puffs became more pronounced, rousing Blanche from her catnap. She gazed out of the window, waiting for her eyes to focus on the Maple which comprised most of her view.

It was a grey day. The tree limbs seemed bolder rather than shrouded by the mid-morning mist. Buds were beginning to give the branches a nubby appearance. A cedar bird-house feeder hung cock-eyed from a branch near the tree’s trunk. In the distance, the soft moaning of a dove could be heard.

Blanche shivered slightly then pulled her sweater more closely, snugging it around her shoulders. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, then at the three framed pictures adjusted so each one could be seen from her chair. She looked for a long moment at the wedding couple, then a young man in a naval uniform, and two smiling little girls. Her eyes began to brim, then steeled against the intrusion. She looked at the clock again then turned back to the window.

“Ten-thirty-five,” she sighed. “Guess I won’t be seeing any birds on the Maple this morning. They don’t like the fog much; guess I don’t either.”

Blanche felt the padded, round arms of her chair, then fingered for the hundredth time the outline of flowers in the pattern. It was her favorite chair, the only one she’d brought with her from the cottage when she moved to the nursing home eight months ago. She called it an “occasional chair,” although she sat in it more than just occasionally.

“The cottage,” Blanche thought. “Oh, to be at the cottage again.” She closed her eyes, envisioning the woodlands surrounding her former home. A well-worn path wove its way through the woods to the back of the property.

“Tulip, poplar, sycamore, black walnut, ash, and shagbark hickory,” she rehearsed. There were 30 acres of mature woods and some acreage of new plantation on the property. She knew every inch of it as well as her kitchen cupboards.

Blanche began to nod again in her reverie. She was walking down the path listening for the familiar songs of her woodland birds. She called them “hers” because they came each year to feed on her seed mix of sweet suet sticks, thanking her with a symphony of songs.

“What is that noise?” Blanche said aloud in her dream. “Stop that noise, you’ll frighten the birds away!”

“Blanche, are you awake?” A young nurse threw open the door. “We have guests! Come out to the Day Room and see them.”

“Oh bother, just leave me alone. I don’t want to see anybody. Tell them I’m not in.”

“Come on Blanche. I think you’ll like these guests; they’re going to sing for you.”

“Who wants to sing for me? I don’t know anybody that can sing.”

Muffled voices turned to giggles and laughter. Someone was shushing them and the voices got quieter.

“Who is that out there? Are there children?” Blanche strained to see past the nurse then reached for a three-footed cane beside her chair.

“Are my grandchildren here? That sounds like Megan and Penny.” Blanche began to lift herself from the chair then sat back down, wincing with pain. “Darned arthritis! It always acts up when it’s damp. You didn’t answer me, are those my granddaughters?”

“No, Blanche, but they are children. Here let me help you up.”

“Oh, bother. Never mind, it’s too much trouble anyway. I’ll just sit here awhile longer.”

“Come on now Blanche. I really think you’ll enjoy these little girls, and I’ll help you find a comfortable chair to sit in, too.”

Slipping an arm around Blanche’s waist, the nurse hoisted her from the chair and steadied her until she grasped her cane. Together they shuffled towards the door, Blanche stopping every few steps to relieve the pressure on her right leg.

“You really need to walk more, Blanche. Walking will help you keep from getting so stove up. Sitting only makes it worse you know.”

Blanche was about to tell her she didn’t find walking the halls a pleasant form of exercise when she saw three little girls skip past her door to the Day Room around the corner.

“Who are those children? They shouldn’t be running, one of them could slip and fall.”

“They’re from a girls’ club at a church in town, Calvary Chapel I think it’s called.”

Blanche seemed to quicken her shuffle as they moved down the corridor and around the corner. “I used to teach Sunday School at our church … but, that was a long time ago.”

As they neared the Day Room, called so because it usually received a generous portion of sunlight, the sounds of children laughing and talking could be heard. A dozen or more girls were standing in a cluster by a middle-aged woman. The woman quieted them once more then seemed to be giving them instructions.

“Blanche, why don’t we have you sit here on the loveseat with Della, that would be nice.”

“I don’t want to sit next to her, she coughs and gags all the time. I want to sit where I can hear the children.”

“Alright, Blanche, let’s go over here by the window and you can sit in a chair by yourself. I’ll help you down.”

Blanche set her cane to the side, then felt the chair with her right hand as she held on to the nurse with her left. Once down, she found a comfortable position and then turned her attention to the group of girls who were now assembling in two staggered rows before them. The taller ones were in back, the smaller ones in front. They were wearing blue skirts and white blouses; some wore a sash with what looked like badges sewn on. Blanche figured the girls must be from eight- to twelve-years old. Some stared at the floor, others looked curiously around the room.

“Look how the sun dances on their hair,” Blanche mused. “Their cheeks are pink with life.”